


For Sherlock Holmes

by jfcmartin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, clone!John, clonelock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfcmartin/pseuds/jfcmartin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes wanted to make sure that his brother is safe and happy. John Watson, Sherlock's only friend and confidant, married to a woman after two long years of separation. This led to Sherlock's increasing drug addiction and near death. Mycroft wanted to make sure that it wouldn't happen ever again.</p>
<p>Fic rec for <a href="http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com">Kriskenshin</a> based loosely off this <a href="http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/124848123849/am-i-a-clone-john-asks-sherlock-one-morning">headcanon</a>. Edited by the sweetest bee: <a href="http://theworldsonly.tumblr.com">theworldsonly</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This isn't a sequel to The One Behind the Mask, I'm afraid. I decided to make this fic rec for [Kriskenshin](http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com) based loosely off their anon's [headcanon](http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/124848123849/am-i-a-clone-john-asks-sherlock-one-morning). My mind was all over the place while I was doing this so I couldn't exactly reach your expectations sorry...
> 
> I would also like to inform everyone that this is the first time I've written any angst fics, so this is the most terrible one I've made probably. But it was fun writing it... Hope you have fun reading it, I guess...

Sherlock was crushed when John got married to someone who isn’t him, the woman named Mary Morstan––now Mary Watson. They even had a daughter; Mycroft discovered behind Sherlock’s back that her name was Jennifer Watson. Sherlock was in complete denial of her existence and went under the mercy of his drug habit. Meanwhile, the Watsons lived in domestic bliss.

John used to visit Sherlock almost every week, whether it was about a case or Sherlock simply needed him to pass a pen from the table across him. He did promise Sherlock that nothing would ever change, even if he had a family of his own.

“You know it won’t alter anything, right, me and Mary, getting married?” he confirmed, darting his eyes between Sherlock and the guardsman across the street. “We’ll still be doing all this.”

“Oh good,” Sherlock said firmly.

“If you were worrying,” John chuckled.

“Wasn’t worrying.” Sherlock clarified.

John paused before he continued. “See, the thing about Mary – she has completely turned my life around, changed everything,” he said wistfully, looking down at his lap. “But, for the record, over the last few years there are two people who have done that, and the other one is…” John looked over his shoulder, only to find an empty bench.

“...a complete dickhead.”

John would run around and find where the bloody hell Sherlock was, and they would solve crimes together. But then the accident happened.

On August 9, 2015, John, Mary, and Jennifer died in a car crash when they went on holiday on Lake District for their wedding anniversary. Witnesses reported that a lorry hit their car and sent them skidding off the road around five in the morning. The truck’s front wasn’t completely wrecked but John’s car was destroyed.

Glass and metal surrounded what was left of the car and their corpses were sitting motionless on the car seats, the seat belt didn’t serve much of its purpose anymore. Baby Jennifer wasn’t even conscious to cry. Blood pooled around the debris; not even a miracle could save them anymore.

Mycroft and his men made sure that Sherlock wouldn’t find anything about this. He wouldn’t mention anything about this; he'd be willing to lie to his brother to protect him from himself, from his drug habit. But then again, he knew his brother wasn’t a fool; he would eventually. He wanted to make the lie smaller; he wanted the lie to be believable, even to the wisest Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft’s men, along with Scotland Yard, were quick enough to collect every single trace of the accident and made sure the authorities and media would never see any sign of the crime scene. They made a small and quiet funeral for Mary and the baby. There was no one to mourn for them anymore. Her supposed ‘friends’ would be informed when everything was settled.

As for John, they had other plans for him.

Mycroft hired professionals that could perform cloning with human beings. They had done very extensive research over the past seven years, but all their efforts never worked. Their first attempt almost did, but the clone died two days after. They were completely in the dark right now, and if ever lucky, John Watson would be the first successful human clone to exist.

Mycroft was using his power beyond his limits for his dear brother. He saw how Sherlock transitioned for ten months when John was away. He didn’t want to see the possible outcome once he realized John had died. The only person Sherlock trusted and the only person that believed in him had slipped away completely. Mycroft didn’t want that to happen; he secretly cared about Sherlock very much.

Three years ago, Sherlock decided to leave everyone behind. It was of course, for the safety of everyone. He was willing to sacrifice all the happy days he could’ve had with his landlady and flatmate to make sure their lives weren’t in the hands of Moriarty’s men at gunpoint.

When he was sure everything was okay, he wanted to go back to the way it should be, when people actually cared for him. He was going to surprise John and proclaim that he wasn’t dead, which of course failed miserably and his reaction conveyed the message that he was never going to forgive him.

The Empty Hearse incident happened, all was forgiven, and the marriage between John Watson and Mary Morstan happened. Sherlock wanted to change everything. He wanted Mary out of their lives, but he couldn’t. Two years did things to people, especially when they think you’ve died.

He had become a serious drug addict since; he wouldn’t rest until he got a fix in every two hours. Mycroft had been willing to take him to rehab to cleanse him, but Sherlock would escape and go to another drug den. Mrs. Hudson had even tried to confiscate them, but Sherlock had other resources to compensate for it.

John visited alone every week, never with Mary, since it would have been unhealthy for his pregnant wife. As the months progressed, John would seldom visit anymore––Mary needed him more than Sherlock did––or so he thought.

Sherlock almost poisoned himself one day. It was when John called him to announce the great news.

“Hey, Sherlock! Guess what? Mary gave birth already! A healthy baby girl. We haven’t decided what to name her yet,” John said gleefully on the phone. “And no, Sherlock. We aren’t naming her after you. Any suggestions? Hello?”

Sherlock merely listened to John’s ecstatic tone. He was lying down on cold concrete, curled up in a ball. He hadn’t done anything hygienic for a long time, and he smelled awful.

“Sherlock? Are you there?” John called out. After a few seconds, he decided to end the phone call. He shuddered at the sudden silence.

Lestrade found him a couple hours later, unconscious, face flat on the ground, with a very weak heartbeat. There were three ambulances and two police cars within the area, and Sherlock hadn’t been awake to complain. Of course, it was all Mycroft’s doing. He tracked his brother’s phone and found his location, where he was at the brink of death. But this time, he would make sure that wouldn’t happen again.

“It is complete, Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft heard from one of his scientists. He followed him, with Anthea shortly behind him, and entered the lab. Everyone stood around them and greeted him curtly, and he returned it with a nod. They finally reached the separate room in which they kept John for vitals and other basic data.

Mycroft was impressed about the outcome. It was as if John Watson survived and was currently sitting on the white chair in front of a white table, watching him expectantly as he walked towards him, eyeing Anthea suspiciously. He was wearing some of his clothes they had taken from his house. An olive shirt, trousers and brown dress shoes.

“You can go now,” Mycroft said, addressing the scientist that led him there. He beckoned towards Anthea and dismissed her as well. He turned back to face the clone, and when he heard the click of the door, Mycroft sat on the white chair near him. It was complete silence for a few minutes before Mycroft spoke.

“Do you know what you are doing here, John?”

The clone shook his head lightly, responding accordingly to his name. His face was hard as stone and his eyes were challenging him. He had kept John’s military stance and reflexes, almost everything John Watson ever was had been transferred into the body of this clone.

“Do you know who you are?” Mycroft tested. Of course, it was a fairly easy question to solve if he knew what his name was.

“I’m John Watson,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. What exactly am I doing here, Mycroft?”

The mention of his own name excited Mycroft. His plan was working. He was about to let out a sigh of relief, but he knew it was too soon to do so. Mycroft asked, “Do you know anyone named Mary Morstan?”

The clone scrunched his nose together and replied, “Who?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Ah, that’ll be a problem.” He reached out for his phone and dialled the number of one of his workers. He brought the phone towards his left ear and waited for him to respond. John was watching him, waiting for the answer to his question.

Finally, the scientist picked up. “Hello, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Arthurson, I have a quick question.” He stood up and paced around the small area. “Is there anything wrong with John’s memories?”

“What?” the clone asked.

“The real John’s brain was slightly damaged in the accident, so almost two and a half years of his memory was erased. We couldn’t do anything about it, so his memory might be a bit scattered,” Arthurson confessed. Mycroft sighed and ended the call without a reply.

He faced John once more and said, “I’m terribly sorry, John.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’ll be leaving you with a few doctors. And you will be released.” He made his way towards the door he entered moments ago. 

“You have to let me out, Mycroft. Sherlock needs me,” John requested pleadingly. 

His eyes narrowed and turned back towards him. “Why would Sherlock need you at a time like this? It’s six o’clock.”

John stood up abruptly, and he winced in pain. He managed to say, “Sh-sherlock called me. H-he w-wanted me to go to St. Barts. M-moriarty is g-go-going to--”

John passed out in front of Mycroft. He sighed and walked out of the room. A few scientists were waiting for him by the door.

“The clone got too excited and fainted. Better check if it’s still alive,” he said as they rushed into the room with a couple of doctors with them.

* * *

 

 

A few days later, Mycroft checked on the condition of the clone. So far, he was still alive and healthy. Sherlock had been informed about the accident.

He saw him at Royal London’s Hospital. They admitted him there to keep their little play accurate. At least, accurate enough to convince Sherlock that John was recovering in a hospital five hours away from where they found him and his dead family.

When Mycroft entered the room, John’s head snapped towards his direction. He was watching some reality show on the telly. He wore a blue hospital gown and lay on the white bed covered in white sheets. A rolling table was beside him, with cold food placed untouched, except for the glass of water, which was half empty.

“How are you feeling, John?” Mycroft asked, standing a few feet away.

“I’m fine,” he replied, turning off the telly with the remote, silence stretching afterwards. He tapped his hands on his lap and said, “They told me about Mary and Jennifer.”

Mycroft nodded. “You don’t seem worried at all.”

“Sherlock. Where is he?” he insisted, ignoring his completely.

“He’ll be here in a while. I contacted him before I got here.”

“What happened to him? And Moriarty?” he asked, sitting up on his bed.

“That was three years ago, John. Everything has been resolved,” Mycroft reassured. Forcing his face to soften up to avoid giving ‘John’ the impression that he was lying. At least this time, he wasn’t.

“Resolved, how?” he demanded.

Before he could protest any further, the door swung open and Sherlock walked in. His eyebrows were scrunched on the middle as he saw John on the bed. He shoved past Mycroft and fell on the bed into John’s arms. He was too overwhelmed with Sherlock that he almost cried.

Mycroft was standing awkwardly, leaning against his umbrella. He cleared his throat and Sherlock began to compose himself, ruffled his coat for a bit and stood in between John and his brother.

“He is alright, Sherlock. May you excuse us for a bit, John?” Mycroft said. Before he could get a word out of John, he walked out of the door, Sherlock grudgingly followed suit.

Sherlock closed the door and waited for Mycroft’s explanation. “Where are Mary and Jennifer?” he asked.

Mycroft played with the handle of the umbrella on his hand. “It seems to me, you’ve already done your research on Jennifer Watson?”

“Oh don’t be so presumptuous, Mycroft. Where are they?” Sherlock spat.

“Unfortunately, brother dear, they’ve passed on. Its a miracle that John survived it all.”

Sherlock studied his brother for a few seconds, to see if he could get any other information from him. Mycroft was rather talented with his facade. He could deflect Sherlock’s deductions almost flawlessly. He gave up and decided to go back into John’s room, but before he could, Mycroft added,

“I must warn you, Sherlock, John doesn’t recall much.” He raised his eyebrows before walking away, saving his brother’s pleasure of shutting the door on his face.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock took the initiative to bring John’s laptop with him when he went to the hospital. He was itching to talk about the case he’d been working on for the past three days.

“According to the students, it was their classmate Dave who killed the principal, but he protested that he wasn’t---”

“Sherlock.”

“---there in the event of the shooting.”

“Sherlock!” he repeated. Sherlock stopped ranting, faced John annoyingly, and realized John was paying not even the slightest attention to what he was saying. He was too busy scanning through his recent blog entries, specifically the one about his marriage.

"When was this?" John asked, reading the same blog entry over and over. He even scrolled down to the comments section.

"The date is right there, John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

He didn't ask anything else. Instead he went to the Yahoo! website and read the headlines. The first one read, First Successful Human Clone! The picture showed a vertically mirrored stock photo. John ignored it and read the next ones, Sherlock considered this as a cue to continue talking about his case.

"Anyway the camera footage--"

"July 26? 2015? Wasn't it April 19 of 2013 yesterday?" John interrupted once more. Sherlock was starting to get annoyed.

"No, it wasn't, John. It's been three years."

"What happened?" John asked. He took Sherlock's trembling hands from his side and held it in between them. Sherlock sighed.

"Nothing of significance. Can we continue the case?"

John thought for a moment. He let go of Sherlock's hand and typed in the website to his blog. He opened his blog entry that said "A New Beginning".

"Why don’t I remember this? Why did I write this?”

But I've been told that I should talk about it. That if I don't talk about it I'll be how I was pre-Sherlock. And I can't go back to that. I've a life now.

Sherlock read the text, even though he remembered it perfectly. He could almost recite it by heart. He read it almost every time he gets the chance to. It broke his heart whenever he did, but he knew his decision was to protect John and everyone else. And John never knew that.

I understand that he's dead. And I accept it. I still believe in him. In who he was.

“Who died?” John asked alarmingly.

But Sherlock is dead and that period of my life is behind me.

John’s eyes were wide and his breath was shaky. “Y-you?”

Sherlock’s face was blank. John wasn’t an expert in reading people’s expressions like the Holmes brothers, so he didn’t know how to react. He quickly moved towards the other side of the bed forcibly pushed Sherlock away.

“How are you still here? You were dead, Sherlock! I said...”

Sherlock sighed. “Keep calm, John! It was all fake. I didn’t die. I faked my death to escape Moriarty.” Sherlock was frustrated and expected to experience the same treatment when he revealed himself the last time.

But instead, John faltered for a bit, and exhaled loudly. He closed his eyes tightly and said, barely a whisper, “Why did you do it?”

“Faking my death?” John nodded.

“It doesn’t matter now, John. It's been a while.”

“Well it isn’t for me!” John snapped. He’s trying to keep himself composed, to prevent himself from choking the person beside him. He knew it was a waste of his energy and might pass out again.

He still wasn't certain of his state at the moment. His mind was all over the place, and he tried to search his head for any answers, since Sherlock won't be giving them anytime soon. His mind wandered to the headline he read earlier.

"Am I a clone, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock looked confused, even he was confused himself.

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock said, straightening his posture on the chair by John's hospital bed.

"I’ve seen all the stuff in my blog, Sherlock. And I don’t remember all the things we’ve done together,” John explained.

The door swung open and Mycroft emerged from it. He looked exactly the way he was when they first saw him; but more tired.

“You’re not a clone, John. Don’t be ridiculous,” he lied. “You only have amnesia.”

“As for you, Sherlock Holmes,” he started with a scowl, “you will have to leave. John here doesn’t need stress right now. Tt’ll affect his recovery.” He walked closer to them and added, “It’ll be very inconvenient for all of us.”

Sherlock mirrored his brother’s scowl and stood up. He took his coat and scarf from the back of his chair and wore them, tightening his scarf forcefully. He left without another word.

Mycroft turned to John. “The only reason I’m here, John, is because I should tell you that you’ll be up and running this afternoon. Somewhere around three. But there will be a few repercussions after this."

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“Well, you see, I will have to visit you once every week for some… medical observations,” Mycroft finished awkwardly.

Mycroft and his men were still paranoid of what would happen to the clone. Would he randomly lose his heart beat in the middle of taking a shower? Would his arm suddenly come off his torso? They didn’t know, and it was best to keep track of his well-being and make sure that Sherlock didn’t suspect a thing.

“Why is that necessary?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. He was smart to come in prepared. He took a folder from his dress coat and gave it to him. John scanned through the whole thing quickly and closed it again.

“What is this about?” he asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to elaborate this any further. Everything you need to know is in that folder. We just need to make sure that nothing happens to you.”

“Wha--”

“Well I better get going, John. I’ll be preparing your things before you go,” Mycroft disrupted, turning on his heel and walked away, leaving John’s question hanging in the air.

****  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wanted to know what happened two years ago. Sherlock was there to replay it for him, no matter how much he hated to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter up and ready to go! This fic is beta-d by the sweetest person:[theworldsonly](http://theworldsonly.tumblr.com/). As usual, nothing is mine (neither is the prompt,) and I hope you guys enjoyed this :D

Everything was back to normal, Lestrade would come in their flat and give them a somewhat interesting case they’d given up solving, ‘the game is on’, and they would run around searching for answers and hopefully solve them.

John would log their cases in his blog and publish it for the world to see, whether the case was solved or not. Every once in a while, a few people would comment about his deceased family, send heartfelt messages about their condolences, and reaching out for him to make him feel that he wasn’t alone.

John, however, had no idea what they’re talking about.. Sure, he did read his blog entry about _The Sign of Three_ , which was all Sherlock’s stupid prank, but nothing seemed to ring a bell. Wasn’t he supposed to feel ‘Mary and Jennifer’s presence’ in his heart or something?

He knew something was wrong.

“Sherlock?” he called. The consulting detective across him was too busy looking through his microscope, probably analyzing some bacteria from the crime scene. But he continued anyway. “Can you tell me something about Mary?”

Sherlock slowly looked up and locked his eyes with John. It was like a staring game, both of them held their breath, trying to calculate what the other was thinking. John thought of dropping the subject instead, since Sherlock might not be answering it anytime soon.

Before he could, Sherlock silently grabbed his phone and showed him a picture of the three of them together. It was on the week before their wedding. They were sampling wedding cakes, much to John and Sherlock’s disgust, and Mary snatched Sherlock’s phone to take a selfie of them trying the carrot cake, which was obviously not the cake they used.

John took the phone with trembling hands and flicked his fingers outward on the screen to zoom it in, right at Mary’s face.

“This is her?” John asked feebly. Sherlock nodded stiffly. He cleared his throat and hurriedly took his phone from John’s hands. He thought about what to say next.

“Mary loved cats,” Sherlock said. “She wanted to get one, even before you got married. But you wanted a dog. We wanted a dog,” he emphasized. “But you got a cat anyway, because you loved her.”

John didn’t say a word. He clasped his hands under his chin, staring down his cuppa. He felt like he was listening to a story about another person; that Sherlock was talking about a stranger.

A question randomly popped into his head. Without even thinking, he blurted, “Why did I get married to someone else?”

Sherlock replied, “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head and tried to hold Sherlock’s gaze, but he didn’t succeed. “Why did I find someone else? How did I find someone else?”

He simply wanted to know the John Watson everyone kept describing since he woke up. He was too foreign for him to understand his decisions in the span of two years. Sherlock of course, wasn’t helping. But he was the only source of answers for the time being.

Finally, he responded, “Because I left.”

John dropped his eyes on the table. “For how long? And why?”

“I thought we discussed this before? It's been ages. Moriarty’s dead now, John. You don’t have to know anything anymore.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Just answer the question.” John spat, crossing his arms over his chest. He was restless. Sherlock kept giving him vague answers that made him more and more confused. It wasn’t his fault that an accident wiped off his memories!

Sherlock dropped his fists on the table, gently shaking the things on top of it. “ I left London for two years because Moriarty was going to hurt you.” He quickly added, “And the others.”

“What others?”   
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock hissed. “You’re all here and you’re all safe now.”

“How about when I needed you?” John asked. “Where were you then?”

Sherlock’s hands started to soften, and he slid them off the table as he got up, walking slowly towards John.

“I was too busy making sure that your life wasn’t a living hell, John.”

John stood up as well, slamming his own fists on the table “Well you were doing a pretty bad job, Sherlock, because I can see it did! I saw my posts, and the comments. I was practically dead. And it’d been like that for two years? Give me a break.”

“I tried to contact you, John! I really did! And I was willing to tell you everything when I came back, but I saw you were with someone else!” Sherlock said, raising his voice. He was pretty sure he heard a rustle from the first floor. “You moved on, John.”

“Mary?” John asked, his voice squeaking at the last syllable. “Sherlock, I don’t know what I did two years ago, but it would be unthinkable that I chose someone else over you.”

“But it happened already,” Sherlock whispered. “You were happy with her, and then you left.” Sherlock could hear feeble footsteps coming from outside the flat. Mrs. Hudson was coming. Instead of barging in, like what she would usually do, she knocked on the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” John said breathlessly.

She slowly pushed the door open and popped her head in the little space. “I heard yelling up here. Are you alright?” she asked worriedly.

“Everything is fine Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, retreating to his chair and looked through his microscope. “How was your date last night?”

Their landlady appeared mortified. She pushed the door a  “Sherlock!” John sighed, sitting back on his own chair and sipped on his lukewarm cup of tea. He decided it was best to completely ignore the whole conversation they just had. Sherlock probably deleted it by now.

“The makeup you wore last night was absolutely appalling. Your dress was brand new, you bought it last time at Westfield, did you?” he said, never leaving his eyes off the eyepiece.

“How would you know?” John asked amusingly.

“I saw the paper bag in the bins,” Sherlock defended.

“‘Course you did,” John said, smirking on his mug.

* * *

John was fast asleep in bed but Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation they had earlier that day. Not even John’s heavy snores could distract his brain from replaying the same exchange over and over.

He knew it was the right decision to tell John at least a spec of information about his wife. He was going to tell him something, without a doubt. He wasn’t going to be an arse and tell him lies about his family. It was in his hands to shape the past and mold it any way he wanted it to be. He could say Mary was a bank teller from Cardiff. He could also say she was a magician.

But he didn’t. He showed him the true Mary. The woman he loved, the woman he left Sherlock for. The woman he was willing to sacrifice even his love for adventure. It’ll hurt to see him clueless of who she was. His wife.

Half of him unavoidably thought he was too kind. It didn’t matter who she was to them right now, she’s dead! Why did he have to tell John anything about her? He didn’t care! All he could remember was the things they’ve done even before Mary came into the picture.

It was safe to say that Sherlock wasn’t satisfied or regretful about his decision that time, and his mind palace decided to close its gates.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s head was occupied with the case Lestrade had given him two days ago.  It was a string of murders that had happened in different locations all around London. They hadn’t found a pattern yet, but they were alarmingly quick. At least five people were reported dead in a week.

Along with Lestrade’s portfolio, Sherlock made research of his own. He asked his homeless network to take photographs of the locations where the murders occurred; maybe they had a key element that lured the suspects into making them target areas.

John was in charge of taking note of any similarities among the five locations written in the file. He might’ve looked interested and serious, but in reality, he was as bored as a brick.

Suddenly, he started to make gagging noises. The papers he was holding were released from his grip, scattered around the floor. Sherlock decided to ignore it for a few seconds, assuming he choked on his own spit, until he heard John whisper,

_Sherlock._

He turned his back and realized what was happening “John, are you okay?” he asked alarmingly, rushing towards his side.

His face was turning purple. He coughed, tried to say something, but failed. He only managed to let out, “Call...Mycroft.” He continued coughing and screwed his eyes shut. Sweat beads were forming on his forehead and his veins were visible around his hairline.

“Mycroft? Why him?” Sherlock asked, but he reached for his phone anyway.

“Just… Do… It…” John wheezed. Sherlock sighed and dialled his brother’s number and placed the phone on his ear. He responded after two rings.

“We’re on the way.” Mycroft answered, even before he could say anything, and dropped the call. Sherlock knew his brother knows what he was talking about so he figured it was best to try and ease John’s pain.

He rubbed John’s back in circles soothingly. “Can you take it?” John shook his head. He leaned back on his chair and tried to take slow breaths. Sherlock was getting more worried by the minute. He was close to calling Mycroft again, to tell him to hurry up, but he decided against it.

Distant sirens were heard outside the flat. John grew irritated as the sounds became louder as they approached their street. When they were right in front of their flat, many voices were heard. Mycroft, along with the paramedics, barged in and ran to John’s aid.

Sherlock bolted towards his brother. “What is going on, Mycroft?”

“We’ll be taking him to the hospital. This is just an effect from the car crash. We have everything under control,” he replied calmly. Sherlock was bothered that his brother wasn’t as panicked as he was.

“Effect?” Sherlock repeated.

He nodded. “He’ll be under observation for two days. Until then, you’ll be staying in the flat.”

The younger brother furrowed his eyebrows. “Why? Can’t I come with?”

“Too much space,” Mycroft excused. The paramedics had John on a stretcher and carried him down stairs. John was still coughing. “I’ll be off then. We’ll return him in good condition.”

He turned and exited the flat, but Sherlock trailed behind him. “Why can’t I come? Is it top secret?”

When both reached outside the building, Mycroft turned towards him and shouted over the sound of the sirens, “Of course not.” His black car stopped right in front of him, and with a final wave, he entered the car, and drove off.

Mrs. Hudson walked out of the door, wearing her purple nightie, and went beside Sherlock. She draped her arm around Sherlock and asked, “What happened to John?”

He pulled his arm off her grasp and walked away, leaving Mrs. Hudson confused as the vehicles dispersed from the street and it was a quiet night once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are gladly appreciated. You can also find me in tumblr at jfcmartin (obviously).


	3. Fish and Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally discovers that he isn't the man he thought he was anymore. He made a deal with Mycroft to keep things the way that it should be, or Sherlock and his life was at stake. Meanwhile, Sherlock excitedly deduced about his brother's new found goldfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter to this really weird fic. I really have no idea where I'm going here to be honest. But that's what makes it even better... I guess... 
> 
> Shout out to my beta reader, [KC!!](http://theworldsonly.tumblr.com/) Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this!
> 
> Nothing is mine, not even the idea of the fic.

John tried to open his eyes, but the light right above him was too bright. The white walls weren’t helping, so he closed them again. He couldn’t move his body, like he was tied up on the cold metal bed.

Am I dead? he asked himself. As a doctor, he very well knew that recovering patients weren’t supposed to lay on metal beds. There weren’t even any pillows! He could hear muffled voices far away from him, like he was listening to them under the ocean.  
“...to the hospital, before it wakes up,” a masculine voice said.

_We’re not in the hospital?_ John wondered.

“The clone will be awake in a couple of hours, sir. The anesthesia will wear off by then,” a female replied. “I’ve called the paramedics, they’re coming in.” _The clone?_

The man hummed in recognition. “And what have you done to it?”

“We’ve replaced both his lungs. Apparently, John Watson’s real ones were damaged when he hit the steering wheel. The airbags weren’t activated, so he hit the wheel directly.”

“Then why did you still use them if you knew they were damaged,” the man hissed.

“We’re very sorry, sir. We didn’t detect them immediately,” she replied.

There was silence for a few minutes; John wasn’t sure of what happened. He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest and groaned. He attracted the attention of the people talking. John felt they were staring at him, so he slowly opened his eyes and darted his eyes between them. It was Mycroft on his left and a blonde woman wearing a lab coat on the right.

“John?" Mycroft called.

"Mycroft," he croaked. "I’m a clone?"

"Everything will be alright, Mr. Watson. Just stay calm," the woman said as she took a needle on a rolling table.

“What am I doing here? What happened to me?” John tried to sit up, but the woman pushed him down. She was about to bring the needle towards his arm when Mycroft brought his hand up to stop her.

“I’ll be the one to handle it from here,” Mycroft told the woman.

“But…” she protested, but Mycroft gave him a look. She nodded and left the room with the rolling table, producing irritating squeaks along the way.

“I’m a clone,” John repeated, as a statement this time. He tried to breathe slowly, to help him process the information. “What happened to me? To the real John Watson?”

“He died in the car crash,” Mycroft explained, placing his hands together with the umbrella handle on his shoulder. John tried to sit up again, slowly this time. He swung his feet off the bed and sat on the edge of the metal bed.

“I thought I—he survived! Why didn’t you just let him die?” John asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I don’t need to do three funerals, that’s too much trouble,” he chuckled.

“Seriously? You’re worried about the fucking funeral, so you decided to do human cloning instead?” He thought it was beyond stupid, but then again, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Mycroft’s daft idea.

“Technically. I did it for my brother,” he clarified.

“Sherlock? All this is for him?”

Mycroft took a step forward, almost a foot away from John’s knee. “We will be in much more trouble when Sherlock Holmes is not in a stable well-being.”

“What does that even mean?” John asked, raising his hands.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “To make things shorter, Sherlock is a man of intelligence and logic. He knows exactly how each and every cranny of his brain functions. This never falters, except for one instance.”

“And that would be?”

“When he feels a tiny bit of emotion,” he supplies.

John was confused for a moment. Of course, every human being had the ability to feel emotions. Even himself, a clone, could feel emotions. He was also certain that Sherlock was a machine that couldn’t feel things, everything was pure science and emotions were useless to him, John thought. But Sherlock feeling… feelings? It was a bizarre for him to consider.

Mycroft saw the confusion in his face so he decided to elaborate. “Sherlock has a slight obsession with you, John Watson. He will do anything in order to make you happy, he was even willing to kill himself to make sure Moriarty wouldn’t touch you.”

John remembered the conversation they had the other day in the flat. Sherlock made it clear that he ‘killed’ himself to keep Moriarty away, but not precisely from _him_. Before he could realize he was staring at the wall for the past minute, Mycroft continued.

“Hmm, a bit too soon. Anyway, since you know too much already, let me tell you the rules you need to follow before I allow you to come back to 221B Baker Street.”   
  
“I’m not your slave. None of that would be necessary.” John said, standing up to prove his point.

“Well we made you, John. In fact, you aren’t John Watson. You are a nameless being. You didn’t come out of a mother’s womb. You did not grow up in a house with a family. You are just a _clone_ ,” he stressed.

“We merely took everything that John Watson ever was and made you. I can always make another version of you, do you realize that it's all too simple. I can wipe you out of existence and make another John Watson. And another. _And another_.”

John winced. “I get it. I get it. I’m sorry. What should I be doing again?”

Mycroft smirked. “Simple; work hard, be happy, enjoy your life with Sherlock Holmes.”

The clone was taken aback. “That’s it?”

“Well, if it isn’t bothersome,” he replied, stuffing his left hand in his pocket and leaned on his umbrella with his right.

“Oh, not at all!” he choked. He can obviously do that. “Anything else I should know?”

“Well, you shouldn’t tell him anything about this, certainly. But I’m under the impression that it was implied.”

He nodded. “Work hard, be happy, enjoy your life with Sherlock Holmes, and never tell him anything about this. Consider it done.”

Mycroft smiled. “Well then, I’m glad we have a deal here. In the event of a minor mishap, let's say, he ‘accidentally’ finds out, then you know what happens next.”

Mycroft extended his arm towards John, offering a handshake. He accepted it nervously. As they shook hands, a knock on the door was heard.

"Come in," Mycroft called. A pair of men dressed in lab gowns entered carrying a stretcher.

"We'll be taking John to Royal London Hospital, Mr. Holmes," one of them said.

"Oh, that’s fine. I can just walk with you," John told them. He tried to show them as he attempted to walk past them, but he felt very tired and panted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and said, "Just take him. He isn’t fully recovered."

In defeat, John sat on the stretcher hovered just below his hips. He lay on top and placed his hands together over his stomach. The boys started to walk slowly; out of the room and into a long narrow hallway, with Mycroft just behind them.

John had mixed feelings at the moment. He had discovered that he wasn't actually himself; he wasn't made of pure flesh and blood. God knew what he was made of. The being who used to own his entire life was probably buried somewhere with Mary and Jennifer. He was now artificial. If he used to be owned by the government by his military services before, then this was taking it to the next level.

But then John remembered that his mission wasn't to protect the country anymore; it was to make Sherlock happy. Sure, he might have been a very moody prick and very expressive of his own opinions, but John loved him. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the brotherly love, or the romantic kind of love, but he knew it was something.

And he had his whole life ahead of him to answer that question.

* * *

"Lung bruises?" Sherlock asked condescendingly.

John shrugged, popping a grape into his mouth. "Dunno. The doctor said it was the steering wheel."

Sherlock visited John in the same room he had occupied the first time he was admitted. Mycroft contacted him first thing in the morning. Of course, Sherlock came five minutes after. He was restless and stayed up the whole night. He had been worried that something bad would happen to John. He had thought his recovery was a miracle. He had even been surprised John was alive at all. He didn’t even want to consider the thought of John being dead.

John was Sherlock's blogger; the blogger of the world's first and only consulting detective. He was very special to him and he was irreplaceable. Molly couldn't fill in his position for even a day. Sherlock worked different when John was right beside him. He didn't know if it was some sort of recognition that made John work beautifully with him. Was it because he made him feel special? Was it because they expressed the same ideas? As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he didn't know the answer this time.

"They're gonna release me tomorrow morning," John announced. He took a stem from the bowl of grapes and ate all of the grapes hanging from it. Sherlock didn't bother taking one.

A question lingered in Sherlock's head, one that has been bugging him even the night before. "Why did you tell me to call Mycroft that time?"

"Huh?" He chewed on the grape in his mouth as he thought and shrugged. "I don't know, maybe it’s because he knows what he's doing?"

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't contented with that answer alone, but he let it be. He didn't want to include his brother in the picture for now. He just made Sherlock more preoccupied than he already was. It was hard to solve a murder while planning to execute one, after all.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said out of the blue.

"For what?"

He held hand up and traced a finger around Sherlock’s palm, tickling him softly. He shrugged, “I don’t know? Not being Sherlock for two seconds?”

“Okay?” he chuckled. He took a grape from the bowl and brought it to John’s mouth. He grinned and accepted it. John decided to do the same thing; he took a grape and hovered it near Sherlock’s mouth, but he grimaced and shook his head. John smirked and pushed it in between his lips and laughed. Sherlock rolled his eyes at how childish he was.

“So, anything new with the Murder Hunt?” John asked. Sherlock assumed that was the name John gave their case. It wasn’t very creative, if he were to be honest.

“Nothing, really,” Sherlock said, clutching John’s hand with his own. “I was worried about what happened to you.”

John scoffed. “You? Worried? I never thought I’d see the day.” He brought their hands to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on their intertwined fingers. Sherlock could get used to this; John was connected to him in a very gentle way. It felt marvelous. He felt like he could melt in John’s touch. He dropped his chin on the duvet and closed his eyes as John rubbed circles around his hand.

Unfortunately, a knock on the door ruined their peaceful atmosphere. Sherlock stayed in his position; he was too comfortable to move. He assumed that the intruder was probably a nurse, based on the very soft knock. It turned out to be Lestrade, who carried a paper bag, judging by the crinkling noises he could hear.

“Hey, John. How’re the lungs?” he asked, placing his gift on the bedside table. He pointed at it and added, “Oh, that’s just some fish and chips. I heard the food they give here is awful.”

John snickered. “Its true. I bet they just popped them in the microwave!” Sherlock mumbled into the sheets to confirm John’s theory. They engaged into a light conversation about how the other was. Sherlock _hated_ small talk with a passion that he decided to mute both of them and savour the feel of John’s hand on his.

He felt they were starting to run out of things to say. Sherlock slowly lifted his head up and faced Lestrade. He squinted for a moment to adjust to the light. He noted that the detective inspector was far too dressed up for a person who was just going to visit a sick patient. He tested if his suspicion was right. “Isn’t my brother coming in, too?”

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. “Mycroft?” Gotcha.

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. He thought for a moment and nodded.  “Of course, he must’ve been the one who brought you here. He wouldn’t want it to be so obvious.”

“What would be so obvious?” John questioned. He was the ignorant one, as always. He was in a revolutionary breakthrough at the moment. He had also successfully made Lestrade uncomfortable, he was fiddling with the hem of his dress shirt.

“John! His cologne is so strong, even the other room can smell it! And he recently shaved. Tell me, Gavin—”

“Greg.”

“—did Mycroft give you that tie?”

“You’re dating?”

Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. He let go of John’s hands and jumped out of his seat and clasped his hands together. “That’s brilliant.” He walked towards the door and opened it, revealing Mycroft at the other side.

He rolled his eyes. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Come in, Mycroft!” Sherlock sneered. Sherlock bounced around the room and John couldn’t help but mirror his smile. He was too busy embarrassing his brother and he was quite enjoying it.

Mycroft would be the last person Sherlock would imagine being out and about on a date. It was very interesting that Mycroft was capable of love, and love for Geoff Lestrade was a bonus. Sherlock deduced they started around two months ago, around the time frame when John got into the accident. It was completely shot in the dark, but that’s when he noticed Mycroft was starting to get chatty. It was something Mycroft usually wasn’t capable of

“So,” John started, tapping his fingers together to think of what to say next. “Is it official, you two?”

Lestrade cleared his throat and rubbed the nape of his neck. “Well, yeah. I suppose. We go on dates sometimes. In the bakery near the office, mostly.”

“Ah, yes. Mycroft loves cake,” Sherlock pipped.

“Sherlock,” his brother hissed.

“Anyway, I’m happy for you. And I’m sure Sherlock is, too.” John supplied. He was always the one to lighten the mood, right when he thought Sherlock was starting to become an arsehole. In his defense, there was no point in keeping things a secret when the physical proof was right in front of their eyes! People were usually too blind to notice.

“Of course he is,” Mycroft said sourly. It made Sherlock grin even wider, if that were even possible.

Lestrade brought his hand to his face. “Can we please drop this now, please?”

Sherlock crept behind Lestrade, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Oh, George. We haven’t even started yet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, kudos, comments or bookmarks are gladly appreciated and inspires me to make more of this weird creation! :D


	4. Three Tombstones under the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson finally meets the Watsons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy time for another update! I honestly still have no idea where this is going, and you probably feel like its dragging for a long time. But I swear it'll last for like 2-3 chapters and I'm finally over. Yay. Or should I make a series of this?
> 
> Eh, maybe I'll just continue making other smaller fics since I can't keep up a good story. Anyway, enjoy!

"Is this really necessary, Mycroft?" John sighed. The two of them were in an abandoned house in Manor Park. It had been burned a couple of years ago and hasn't been rebuilt since. The place was reeking with a mouldy scent and the whole structure was falling apart. Mycroft didn't seem to care at all.

"Yes, otherwise we run the risk of Sherlock hearing us," Mycroft explained, shifting his weight on his other foot.

"There's a thing called text messaging," John said. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot impatiently. "What do you want?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Just checking on your welfare."

John rolled his eyes. "Well I'm fine, thank you very much. Nothing hurts. I solve cases with your brother. That's as normal as it gets."

Mycroft nodded. "He doesn't know?"

"No idea," John confirmed. He scrunched his nose; the air he was breathing was unbearable. Mycroft could've at least picked a decent hiding spot, he thought.

"Good," he answered. "Off you go then."

"Honestly, Mycroft?  That's it?" John asked incredulously. He started to turn around

"I don't know, John. You tell me," Mycroft said. John stopped and faced Mycroft, raising his brows questioningly. He continued, "You're hesitating, John. Either you need something, or you're confused. I’m going for the first option since our arrangement seems very clear to you. What do you want?”

John sighed. He turned back around and walked closer to Mycroft. He tried to find the right words. John wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, and bounced on the balls of his feet.

“I want to see my body. My real one,” John said. He continued, “I want to visit my grave, if it's buried or something.” John was very confused on what should he call himself––or John, for that matter.

“Well yes, you’re technically buried by your wife’s grave,” Mycroft confirmed. “But this is a very dangerous request, John. As you know, the cemetery is an open area nearby.”

“I understand that. But that’s still me, Mycroft. I have the right to see him.”

Mycroft rubbed his eyes. “I know. Besides, there’s nothing stopping you from wanting this, so I won’t bother objecting. I will allow it, but we should be particularly careful.”

“Thank you. Seriously, it means a lot.” John didn’t want to be sentimental in front of Mycroft, but he was relieved that he didn’t have to deal with his stubbornness. John guessed his attitude overpowered Mycroft’s.

“Of course. Anyway, we should get going now, while I’m still here to bring you there,” Mycroft said, walking past John, expecting him to follow.

* * *

The black car stopped in front of a quiet coffee shop, just across the cemetery where the Watsons were buried. John’s hands were trembling, and he broke into a cold sweat. Mycroft took a quick glance at him before stepping out of the car, with John close behind.

The cool wind hit John’s neck tauntingly; it increased the eeriness of the situation. Mycroft approached his assistant and instructed her to do something indistinctive. He turned towards John and gestured him to follow. They crossed the street and entered the squeaking gates.

“Why here?” John asked, watching as the tombstones move past him as they walked further into the cemetery. He hasn’t been to this cemetery before and he didn’t know anyone lying here. It was a completely different place to him and he was very intrigued.

“This is where we buried Sherlock when he faked his death,” he replied.

“So wouldn’t that mean he knows this place?” John inquired. “What if he finds out?”

“I know how he thinks; everything is supposed to be clever,” he answered, dragging his umbrella behind him as they continued walking. “He would instantly cross this off the list since it would be too redundant.”

John chuckled. “Well he’s Sherlock. He wants things to be interesting.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement. He stopped all of a sudden and pointed at three small marble tombstones standing under a tree. They were surrounded with wilting flowers and fallen leaves. They looked like they hadn’t been maintained for months.

John slowly advanced towards them and squatted just a foot away. He ran his hand against each tombstone and felt the engravings on them. The smallest one, on the left, belonged to Jennifer Watson. John rearranged the brown flowers decorated around it to make it look more presentable.

He scooted towards the one in the middle, Mary’s tombstone. Her name, birth, and death all marked on the smooth surface of the marble. He remembered the picture Sherlock showed him a few weeks ago. He felt obligated to try remembering her, but he couldn’t do it.

Mary was something etched at the back of his head. John somehow knew a Mary existed somewhere in his life––maybe because Sherlock told him stories about her––but he felt like she was just a bedtime story.

He turned his head to the right and looked at his own tombstone. This was him. The John Watson he used to be. Seeing his own name on a monument made him feel almost robotic. He was watching himself from another perspective, in a different set of eyes.

He never thought this day would happen in his life. John had grown to the belief that death is the final toll of everyone’s life. He could be the first person to defy that. Unfortunately, there are some risks. He could shut down at any moment. Mycroft told him that he was the first successful attempt in cloning and they were completely patting in the dark at that time.

But look at him now, alive and attending his funeral a bit too late. He was amazed by how the letters of all their names seemed to blend in with the marble––light grey on dark. The writings were thin and light; it was almost unreadable from a distance.

“We did that just in case Sherlock decided to walk around,” Mycroft said, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m worried that I underestimated him. It’s better to be sure.”

“Wow, you really thought about this,” John commented as he stood up. He took a final glance at the tombstones and said, “Let’s go?”

Mycroft nodded, and together they made their way back to the car. Anthea sat in the passenger seat, completely oblivious about their presence as per usual. Mycroft’s driver started the car back to 221 B Baker Street.

* * *

“But then the wife didn’t buy the laptop,” Sherlock muttered. He’d been working on the case of an entrepreneur—Mr. Ackerman—who had noticed fifty pounds being taken out of his bank account every day.  It was very odd, even to Sherlock, and completely unnecessary, but the idea was interesting, Sherlock gave it that.

He’s been thinking out loud for the past thirty minutes. He wanted John to give his own response about the case but he hadn’t been giving anything. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was probably still processing everything he had said, and didn’t have enough reaction time to respond.

Sherlock sighed deeply. “Oh for god’s sake, John. A simple response would be nice,” he said and searched around the flat. _Oh, he isn’t here_ , Sherlock thought. He never got used to John being missing, even after all this time.

He suddenly became aware of the silence as well. Nothing but Mrs. Hudson’s telly made a sound. He could hear the faint laughter; she was probably watching some sitcom. Sherlock hated them.

Sherlock's peace was interrupted by a violent swing of the door. John entered the flat and appeared very confused. He carried a white plastic bag, probably with some groceries and toiletries.

He dropped them on the table and said, “Bloody fucking hell.” He didn’t even spare Sherlock a look and went to grab his laptop on the coffee table beside Sherlock. He retreated to the room and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock noticed that John had been distant the past few days. He didn’t talk as much as he used to, didn’t complain about everything under the sun, or scold Sherlock with whatever he could think of. It was very un-John of him.

It could be about Harry, Sherlock mused. That was the only reason he would ever get irritable and closed off.  John would start the day by cheerily drinking his coffee, but one three minute phone call with Harry would be enough to sour his mood for the entire day.  So this behaviour wasn’t something new to Sherlock, but it was still mildly suspicious.

Besides, Sherlock knew John wasn’t very close with his sister. It was the reason why they were flatmates.  It was unlikely, then, that John had even spoken to Harry recently enough to account for all of his grumpy behaviour, but anger at Harry seemed like the only remaining explanation for John’s ongoing moods.

Before Sherlock knew it, it was eight in the evening. The only reason he found out was John’s gentle tap on the shoulder.

“You better go to sleep, Sherlock. You’ve been standing on the exact same spot for five hours,” John said tiredly.

“Well you’ve been watching the same thing for five hours,” Sherlock smirked as he collected his files spread on the couch. “Do yourself a favor and clear your internet history. I don’t need it interfering my preferences.”

John’s eyes widened as he brought his palm onto his face. “Christ, Sherlock. Are you still using my laptop? Don’t you have your own?”

“I use it strictly for professional purposes only, John.”

“And you use my _personal_ computer for whatever it is you need?”

“Guilty as charged,” Sherlock winked as he made his way to the bathroom.

* * *

John started get ready for work. He stuffed an extra shirt into his bag and a few other essentials like cologne, a comb, and a deodorant stick to keep himself fresh. He had to keep his clean persona to avoid warding off patients, no matter how hard it is to bare their ignorance in hygiene.

He decided to wake up extra early again this time. John’s alarm, which used to be set for 6:30 AM, was now set for 5. He wanted to pass by the cemetery before going to the hospital, which was only five blocks away. He settled with oatmeal for breakfast instead of making some eggs on toast. He didn’t even bother to shave.

Whenever John felt like it, he would go and visit his grave to tidy it up or just to talk to it. He felt better talking to slices of marble than an actual human being, like Sherlock. Sure, he and Lestrade would go to the pub every once in a while for some beer and have a chat, but the DI was mostly busy right now, and talking to Sherlock would just lead to Sherlock contradicting everything that came out of his mouth.

John would ramble about whatever he could think of at that moment. Maybe it was about the job, or about Sherlock. Just about anything he could think of but could never mention to Sherlock. It was either too personal or too absurd for Sherlock’s mind to process.

He grabbed his coat and backpack and tiptoed his way to the door, making sure he didn’t disturb Sherlock’s nap. John was surprised Sherlock even slept at all. He had this case he was dying to solve and even made a self-challenge to finish it in two days. Sherlock believed he was clever enough to figure it out even in a day.

He let out a sigh of relief as he got out of the flat and went to unchain his bike. He rode it and made his way through the busy streets of London. He memorized his route by heart even if he had been on it for only three times.

He remembered that blinking bulb which allowed pedestrians to cross anytime they wanted. He usually stopped because an elderly man crossed or a little kid was running late for class. John also passed by a pub with a huge replica of a parrot with an eye patch and a pirate’s hat. He wanted to take Sherlock there one day.

He could tell when he was almost there. It was usually when the surroundings became quiet and everybody suddenly disappeared. Everyone was busy in the heart of the city so the rest of the place was almost deserted. At least, that was what John was trying to convince himself.

John finally reached the familiar gates of the cemetery. He entered them quietly and brisk walked deeper into the cemetery. When he saw the row of three marble gravestones, he walked towards them and dropped his backpack on the ground to retrieve something.

They were flowers that a fan had delivered once when Sherlock was in his mind palace that John had decided to keep for himself. Sherlock wouldn’t have given them a second glance, and they would have eventually rotted on their coffee table. He bent down and distributed the bouquet equally on each of their graves. He stood up to marvel is work.

“Alright then. Erm, hello again,” John started, clasping his hands on his back. “I was just about to go to work. I don’t think it will be a busy day today. They were all piled up yesterday,” he chuckled. Whenever something busy happened in one day, the next day wouldn’t have as much. It was as if everyone’s bodies were connected to feel ill on the same day.

“Sherlock’s doing this case. It’s got something to do with this bloke receiving death threats everyday. What should I call it, John?” he asked the tombstone on the right. He listened carefully, as if it was even going to respond. John sighed.

“I was thinking of calling it the _Death Sentence_. What do you think?” he asked the air again. John smiled to himself and bounced on the balls of his feet. He probably looked completely mad to passersby, but he felt completely at ease. He was like talking to an old friend.

“I know. Completely naff, right? Sherlock would go barmy. ‘ _Oh John, did you leave your sense at the crime scene_ ’?” John mimicked. Sherlock always hated the names he gave to their cases. He considered them catchy and clever, but Sherlock thought they were dull.

“Well which one of us has the most blog views?” he boasted. “Who would want to read about tobacco ash anyway?” John’s wristwatch suddenly made a small beeping noise. It meant his time in the cemetery was up. He sighed and grabbed his backpack and swung it around his back.

“Well, I gotta go. See you tomorrow, I guess.” He gave a small wave and turned around. He breezily walked back to where he came from and exited the gates. He made his way to his bike and unlocked it from its chain. He cycled his way to St. Bart’s hospital. When he arrived, he braced himself for another depressing and unstimulating day of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are gladly appreciated my dears!!

**Author's Note:**

> This'll be a multi-chapter thing. The next one'll be posted eventually. Please leave comments and kudos, very much appreciated :D


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